


Morning Muse

by Valenix



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Artist/Muse, M/M, Stony - Freeform, That's right, Warning: Graphic Depiction of an Entirely Unedited First Draft, another disappointing Coffee shop AU, as if we didn't have enough of those already, cap_ironman bingo fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 07:43:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14911229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valenix/pseuds/Valenix
Summary: Steve can't stop drawing one of his customers. Luckily, that customer doesn't seem to mind.





	Morning Muse

**Author's Note:**

> This work is inspired by the time a couple weeks ago where a stranger asked to draw me in public, but it ended up being super awkward and uncomfortable and I didn't like it at all. Apparently this is how I'm gonna deal with it. 
> 
> ANYWAY, this is one of my fills for the Stony Bingo (AU: Artist/Muse).

 

Usually the mornings were a dead shift at the start; the rush typically started at around 6:30, so the earliest parts of the morning were lovely and Steve had barely enough time to _open_ the store before he looked up to find warm brown eyes watching him from across the counter, a slight smirk crinkling them at the edges, and Steve had to clear his throat before taking his order, because _oh_.

The guy looked amused, if anything. He rattled off an order that made Steve’s eyes water in sympathy for the man’s tastebuds, and Steve took it, and paused.

“Name?”

The guy was surprised. He was, after all, the only person in the cafe, and Steve’s eyes darted away so he could pretend to focus on writing the guy’s order on his cup, as though it was totally normal and necessary.

“Tony,” the guy said. “It’s spelled-“

Steve waved him off, already writing on the cup with a flourish. The amused exasperation on Tony’s face when he read “Tonie” across the side of his cup shouldn’t have been as adorable as it was.

* * *

He was back.

It was still early, still quiet, but Tony was there staring out the window, a fist holding up his chin. He took a sip - or, more, a gulp - and deliberately turned his phone face down when it lit up and buzzed against the counter.

Steve watched him, faintly entranced. He could only see the edge of the guy’s face, framed in the early morning grey outside the window, and there was something about the way he’d draped himself over the table and chair that was fascinating. It was so much more expressive than any of the other customers, almost something like the exaggerated poses of the models in his life drawing class.

There was a gap in customers, and he picked up his sketchbook from its usual home in the back room, and sat down to sketch.

He didn’t really realise he was drawing the man in the corner until he looked up, trying to compare the way the guy’s hand was clutched possessively around his cup. He coughed, and tried to busy himself around the coffee machine, hoping he hadn’t been caught.

The guy looked at his watch, and got up with a sigh, the rest of his drink clutched in his hand.

The bell on the door jingled after him, and Steve crushed down the feeling of disappointment.

* * *

The sky outside was only just touching the golden hour, the light tinted blue and gold, and Tony was back.

Tony’s eyes shone a richer brown than usual in the first rays of the sun that arched their way through the cafe window. Steve took his order with a smile, and while Tony flipped through his wallet for cash he subtly used the time to study the man’s face as closely as he could.

Tony had a sense of style that fascinated him; suit jackets, loud sunglasses, carefully messy hair. When Steve handed him his coffee, their fingers touched, and Steve tried to suppress a blush with a tiny cough and a sudden interest in cleaning the coffee machine.

When he next looked up he was startled to see that his apparent muse had adopted an even more ridiculous pose to the one the day before; he was slumped over the table, chin resting on a folded arm, legs stretched out straight below the table, frowning with narrowed eyes at the phone in his other hand.

It shouldn’t have been endearing, but the almost child-like expressiveness behind the pose was irresistible, and Steve tried to commit it to memory so he could draw it in his break. When the place was empty he doodled on an unused paperbag, trying to capture the _exact_ way the sun slanted across his subject’s face.

He could have sworn the guy was smirking when he glanced up and their eyes met. Steve looked away too quickly to tell.

* * *

“I always seem to see you drawing,” a voice said, and Steve covered the drawing he’d been working on, because suddenly his muse was _right there_ , looking at him, amusement dancing in warm brown eyes. “Do you mind?”

It took him a second to realise the guy was gesturing to the free seat on the other side of Steve’s booth. He coughed, and nodded, and his muse slid into the seat with languid grace.

“I’m an art student,” he said, feeling his ears go slightly red at the tips. Business types were often patronising when he mentioned his career choices. “I, uh, take all the time I can. To practice.”

Tony leaned forward, eyes running over the other small sketches on the page with a critical eye. “You’re good. You’re gonna go far.”

Steve didn’t know what to say, so he settled for a smile as he tried to turn the page without lifting his hand and revealing the study of Tony’s face he’d been working on; he looked up to see his subject watching his face, taking a slow sip from his cup, his eyes crinkled at the edges in a friendly, almost knowing smile.

He had just been about to ask Tony about himself, but the bell rang as a gaggle of schoolgirls flooded into the room and he had to jump up to serve them.

By the time the rush had ended, Tony was gone.

* * *

The next day, Tony arranged himself along an entire booth, arm draped dramatically over his eyes to shield them from the early morning rays. Steve noticed the rock-band shirt he was wearing under his suit jacket had ridden up a little, revealing a little skin above the guy’s waistband.

He was _very_ pleased to see that the skin there was the same honey-gold colour as the rest of him. 

He laughed, quietly, at the guy’s pose - but eventually pulled out his sketchpad and pencil, happy that he could finally draw his muse without worrying about him noticing.

* * *

One day Tony slumped forward over the bar counter, head pillowed on his folded arms, feet twisted in the legs of the stool he was sitting on.

“Wake me up in ten minutes,” he told Steve, with a seepy, almost cunning smile. The he closed his eyes, got comfortable, and seemingly drifted away.

Steve concentrated on his face, that day. He finally managed to nail the exact shape of Tony’s lips, and the exact way his eyelashes curled against his cheek.

He folded the paper bag he’d been sketching on and tucked it carefully into his sketchbook. It was a good reference for later.

Tony’s nose scrunched up when Steve gently prodded him awake; his face slipped into a frown of annoyance before Steve slipped a freshly made cup into his hand. “On the house,” Steve told him. “Since you’re so tired today.”

The smile he got back was warm and almost sultry. Something fluttered in Steve’s chest.

* * *

Steve got sick.

He felt it the night before, thankfully, and though he was determined to work whenever he could even he could recognise he shouldn’t be working with food while unwell.

He texted Nat, and asked for a few days off. She granted them immediately. _“I think Bruce is free this week. I’ll sort it out. Feel better!”_

The next morning he rolled over, feeling like death warmed over, and stared at his sketchbook on the nightstand.

Hey, it’s not like he was planning on doing anything else.

He stifled a coughing fit and pulled the sketchbook closer, propping his head up on his pillow and trying to arrange himself comfortably enough that he could still sketch lying down.

If he imagined Tony lying in the bed next to him - well, it’s not like anybody else could judge him for it, if they didn’t know. Right?

* * *

“This guy came in the other day,” Bruce said on Steve’s first day back, leaning his elbows against the counter and pushing his glasses up his nose.

Steve barely looked up from stacking a newly washed cup against the draining board. “What a surprise,” he said, sarcasm lining his voice. “Considering all our customers are women.”

“His name was Tony, I think? He asked where you were. Is he a model? He said he was disappointed he couldn’t pose for your drawings that day.”

The cup Steve had been washing shattered against the tiles, and the few customers they had swivelled to look. “He said _what_?”

Bruce gave him an odd look, crouching to fish the dustpan and broom from their place under the counter. “He said he liked being your muse, or something.” Bruce took in Steve’s quickly reddening face with an amused smirk. “Are you dating him?”

Steve was too mortified to reply, and Bruce’s friendly amusement turned to concern as he swept up the last of the broken ceramic. “What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t think he knew,” Steve said, wringing the dish towel and turning his back to the cafe at large, pretending to wipe down some of the cups that were already dry. “I, uh-“

“You were trying to subtly draw people at work for practice again?”

Steve nodded, shoulders hunched, shame flooding across his chest. “Kind of? Only him. He’s just so… there’s something special about him. I like him.”

Bruce raised his eyebrows. “You like him? As in, _asking him out_ like him?”

Steve rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Maybe?”

Bruce put a hand on his shoulder, and gave it a comforting squeeze. “He _did_ say he liked it,” Bruce told him. “Don’t be too mortified.”

 _Too late_ , Steve thought. _There’s no fixing that._

* * *

Natasha eyed him suspiciously when he asked for a shift change, but he was a model employee who rarely asked for anything, so she granted it.

“I’ll stick Clint on mornings,” she said, casual. “He’ll hate it. Teach him not to deliberately mis-spell peoples’ names.”

Steve smiled, his chest hollow, and thanked her.

* * *

He missed the morning shift. The afternoon shift was slower, and his mornings were a drag without customers to keep him busy. He was trying to put his mornings to good use, trying to commit himself to drawing and painting as much as he could during his spare time.

He was working on a new piece, but it still lacked something.

He stood back to regard it, head tilted to the side. The solution wasn’t immediately obvious, so he took it from his easel and propped it against his door in the hallway, pacing backwards to look at it again.

The new perspective didn’t help. He turned it upside down; that didn’t help either.

He sighed, giving up for the day. There was no point pushing it. He put it with the others - the growing pile of works that were missing the _perfect_ detail that he couldn’t understand, the one thing they needed that he could never quite identify.

He itched to draw Tony, but he pushed the urge away.

* * *

It was the night before his final work was due before he finally perfected it.

It was a painting of Tony, similar to the day they’d first met; a man in a crisp, hyper-modern, bespoke business suit, the top few buttons undone on his shirt and tie loosened; a stark contrast to the old fashioned decor that littered the place. He was smiling down at a book in his hands, his hair tousled, looking modern and handsome but also peaceful and soft.

He was proud of it.

He wanted to _destroy_ it.

But the submission date was tomorrow, and he needed a final project, and nothing else he’d been working on had whatever it was that hid in the way Tony slouched, so relaxed and comfortable, in an environment that didn’t seem to match him at all.

He wrapped the canvas in brown paper and set it against the door, ready to take to the exhibition the next day, his heart hammering in his chest.

—

He got an A+. He was too embarrassed to show it to his friends.

* * *

“He doesn’t come anymore,” Bruce said, watching Steve’s face out of the corner of his eye. “He hasn’t come back in weeks.”

“Oh.”

“You should work the morning shift again.”

Steve glanced across at him, unsure. Bruce bumped his shoulder affectionately. “Just switch back. Clint’s been bitching about the schedule change anyway.”

Steve offered a weak smile, and said he’d think about it.

Then texted Natasha two minutes later.

 _Fucking finally,_ she texted back.

* * *

Steve was surprised to see Clint at work on his first morning shift back. It was even more startling that somehow he’d managed to beat Steve; the guy was famously known for sleeping well into the afternoon on his days off. He was sitting on the front step, glaring at nothing, nursing his first freshly made cup of coffee for the day.

“It’s 5am,” Steve said, startled. “You’re not on for today.”

“Yeah I am,” Clint said, and idly pulled up his schedule on his phone to show Steve that he was indeed on the morning shift. “We have something coming in today, apparently, and so we need two of us.” He paused. “I hate everyone.”

Steve chuckled, ruffling his friend’s hair as he passed, ignoring the indignant yelp he got in return. The cafe was clean and tidy, the chairs already taken down from the tables. He busied himself with pulling out the pre-made pastries, putting the croissants in to bake, and started up the coffee machine.

He didn’t hear the bell jingle, because he’d started grinding a new blend, so when he turned back to the counter a few minutes later he almost dropped everything he was holding in surprise.

“Hey,” Tony said, a wide grin across his face. “Fancy seeing you here!”

“I, uh-“ Steve flushed, embarrassed. “Hi.”

“I’m looking for an artist,” Tony told him, his eyes warm in the early morning light. “I heard there was a pretty decent one here. Turns out I’m an attention whore who really likes being a life model and I’m thinking of taking it up as a career.”

Steve cleared his throat, awkwardly casting about for something to say. “I’m really sorry”, he settled on, ducking his head and pretending to wipe down the counter. He stopped. “It was wrong, and kinda stalker-y, and-“

Tony covered his hand with his own. “Little bit weird, yeah,” he told him. “But I get enough people taking pictures of me that I don’t really mind. In fact, it was a nice break from the usual.”

Steve stared at him. “Who’s taking pictures of you?”

Tony waved the question away. “Anyway, point is, wanna go hang out? I’ve got the morning free, you’ve got the morning free, let’s make it a date. I’ll pose however you like.”

The cheeky grin was followed by a wink, and Steve blushed heavier than before. “I would, I would love to-“ he said, and realised a moment later that he was telling the truth - he really would love to. “But I’m on shift for the rest of the morning…”

Clint shoved him to the side. “No you’re not.”

“Yeah I am-“

“No, you’re not,” Tony told him. “Thanks, by the way,” he said to Clint. “Tell Bruce and Nat thanks too.”

Steve stared at the two of them, mouth agape. “ _Clint?_ ”

“Present.”

“You set this up?”

“Technically Bruce did, actually.”

Steve couldn’t think of anything to say. Tony leaned across the counter, looking at the coffee machine. “But before we head off, can I grab a coffee? I’m going to _literally die_ if I have to wait any longer.”

Steve obliged.

He put it in a takeaway cup, though, and let Tony tug him out the door into the early morning street, where the rest of the city was slowly stirring around them.

He flipped off Clint as they passed the windows, though. Clint returned it with a grin.

**Author's Note:**

> Still working on [Shards](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14475252/chapters/33437862Shards), I promise. A lot of the Juicy Bits are written, I just have to write the filler chapters that can get us there. Hold tight. 
> 
> [I'm on tumblr](valenixfix.tumblr.com). Come help me procrastinate!


End file.
